The Love of Mycroft
by dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Character Study. No matter what else is true, Mycroft is still a man. He still has needs, like food, water and shelter. Among other things.


**The Love of Mycroft**

He does have needs, like any man. Food. Drink. Shelter. Clothing. He is generally adverse to human company, especially since the vast majority will insist on talking to him, or at him, and trying to engage in the pointless drivel that passes for conversation among most. But he does occasionally require human company, and fulfills this need through the Diogenes Club, where he can watch people without having to listen to a word, a state he finds thoroughly refreshing.

Occupying a 'minor position in the British Government' (as he says), is a stressful position that reveals other needs. Needs such as transportation, and a secretary. Oh, he could take cabs, but he prefers the exclusive services of a car and driver whom he controls. Much less risk that way. And of course he could remember all his appointments and meetings and such himself, but it would only clutter his mind. He'd constantly have to be deleting and updating information if he did that. And that would simply be tiresome.

Besides, most men in his position have secretaries. It wouldn't do to stand out too much. Not in any manner that he can avoid, at least. Instead, he keeps a secretary, and hires a woman with a mind for fashion and detail, who amuses him by changing her name on a regular basis, which serves both as a deterrent to boredom and a deterrent to trouble, when the inevitable happens, and someone starts sniffing for information about his personal staff.

Of course, thinking along those lines brings his attention to other – needs – which men of his position tend to insist on having fulfilled.

He is far past the age when being ruled by ones hormones is in any way appropriate. In all honesty, he finds it equal parts amusing and contemptible, how often his colleagues allow wayward chemicals in their brains to lead them into situations that inevitably lead to disaster. Nonetheless, he is still human, and still male, and thus, maintaining optimum and peak efficiency requires addressing certain concerns which he would prefer to do without. He could ignore them, of course, but then he would require a different outlet for his energies, and that might prove even more troublesome.

Heaven forbid he might be required to take up some boring pursuit, or worse, engage in the type of physical activity his younger brother does.

He is discreet, as is only wise for a man in his position. Not having a wife, and thus a situation which might cause a scandal, is both useful and cumbersome. After all, if he had a wife he might have someone to aid him with seeing to various necessities for a comfortable, yet stimulating existence. On the other hand, few and far between are the women who would meet his requirements. Intelligent enough to hold a proper conversation with, observant enough to avoid exasperating him, politically minded enough to keep up with him, and willing to put up with his schedule and his brother, while still retaining enough character not to bow before his every whim.

It does not escape his notice that many of these are the same requirements he had for his secretary. However, that is a matter to be filed away in his mind palace and ignored. Men of his station do not dally with their secretaries. Not unless they wish to invite a scandal, at any rate.

Then again, there are men whose wives also fulfill the function of their social secretaries, in a way. And there are men who have met their wives (and women who have met their husbands) in the workplace.

That also is a thought that he files away. He tells himself that it is because he seldom deletes anything when it might hold potential value. This is true, as far as it goes, but he is wise enough to know it is not the whole truth.

He makes no overtures, no hints, no indication of this path his thoughts have followed. Gives no sign that he might regret having hired the woman, rather than courted her. Still, she is not unintelligent.

And he is not surprised when she begins to make overtures of her own. Turning down requests by other men, even ones who clearly have no ulterior motives. Offering little comforts, his favorite tea with extra sugar, a cake that is his particular favorite, on days when the job (or Sherlock) produces more stress than normal. Arriving early to help him select his wardrobe for the day.

Little things which, when put together into a cohesive whole, reveal his image.

She is intelligent enough to prove that she knows him, before she offers anything that might be a risk. All she does is completely appropriate for a secretary, and yet, offered with subtle signals that it could mean more, if he wishes to let it.

It is a long slow dance, one step at a time, ever closer together. In some ways, much like the maneuvers of politics that he engages in every day. And yet, it is different, for he will never see the results of this particular dance play out on England's stage, or the world's. This is a private duel of wits, a private performance. A game between two, utterly different from the one he plays with Sherlock, and yet just as satisfying. And the rewards have the potential to be far more gratifying than his brother's constant snarling.

In the end, there can only be one conclusion. Having allowed the dance to occur, he does not end it the night she comes to the house, following him on one of his inevitable late evenings, and offers him tea, a massage, and more.

That night, he only accepts the tea and the massage, but he leaves the subtle signals that more will be accepted when it is time, if she is still willing.

She is, and when they finally come together, she proves that she has been paying careful attention to him. Far more than he supposed. For she understands what many past liaisons never could, never would.

He is not a simple man. His needs, in this at least, are as complex as his mind palace, and vary according to many factors.

There are nights when he needs tenderness. Gentle hands, soothing touches. Quiet meetings in the dark, feather-light kisses and caresses. These are the nights he needs to be reminded why he is on the side of angels, rather than demons. When he needs proof that his tireless efforts for King and Country, and for humanity, are worth the trouble.

He knows that many dislike him. At least 95 percent of the people who meet him. He knows Sherlock is not the only one who calls him 'the Iceman' and that many use less flattering terms. In general, he does not care. But sometimes, when word reaches him of a colleague trying to bring him down (they won't succeed, but it is still annoying), when he hears whispers of how his brother is called a freak (it takes effort not to destroy everyone who utters those words, but Sherlock wouldn't thank him for it) and knows that only his position prevents similar nicknames for his person, it is difficult.

These are the nights he needs reminding that one person sees him for who he is, and does not mind, even likes him. Sarcasm, biting intelligence and all.

These are the nights he dares to interlace his fingers with hers, to walk side by side through the halls of his home. To exchange gentle brushes of his fingers and palms with her touch. To stroke cautiously though her hair, always soft and shining. To accept, and give, light hesitant kisses, kisses that start with a chaste brush to the forehead, and become more heated, and more intimate, as the night goes on. When every movement is shared between them, a give-and-take of kindness and softness that he would never permit the outside world to see him give or receive.

There are other nights, similar nights, when he requires surrender, rather than sharing.

He is always in control. Of himself, of the country. Only Sherlock ever escapes him, Sherlock and the rare criminal that requires his brother's talents. Nonetheless, his control is profound and extensive, and all consuming. And exhausting.

Sometimes, as loathe as he might be to admit it, even to himself, he needs relief. Such control cannot be maintained forever, much though he might wish otherwise. He has seen more than one of his colleagues fail to grasp this principal, and overextend themselves, falling either into madness or tyranny (which is nearly the same, but often more destructive). He refuses to make that mistake.

She understands. Understands what it means when he drops his mask, when he follows her, rather than leading or standing beside her. Understands that these are the nights when he lets go, surrenders himself into her hands.

It is a complete surrender, even if only for a night, for he does nothing by halves. Not in this.

On these nights, she is the one to take the lead, leading him to the bedroom. He does nothing for himself, not even undressing. He gives himself over to her, content to do as she directs, to watch as she tugs buttons free and removes articles of clothing, content to yield when she guides him backwards into the softness of his mattress. Willing to follow her lead in all things.

These nights, he is vulnerable in a way that tenderness never makes him. Surrender such as his leaves no room for pretense or privacy, for the masks that he wears so often. These nights, he is free from all the restraints he places upon himself in the presence of others.

These are the nights that he can be brought to his knees, humbled or humiliated, if she so chose. That he knows this and allows himself to be vulnerable anyway is a measure of his trust. That she never takes advantage of it is proof of her love and her loyalty to him.

Sherlock, he thinks, would be shocked if he could see him on these nights. He himself is often shocked at what he remembers. The sounds he makes, the way his back and shoulders arch, the way his hands move, flexing and clenching in the linens. The expressions he sees mirrored in her eyes and feels form in the muscles of his face. Things that no other has ever been, or ever will be, permitted to see.

These nights, he thinks, are the closest he will ever come to understanding his brother's former drug habits, and why he turned to them. Of course, he would never tell Sherlock that, and he is even less likely to ever, ever reveal the existence of these nights of surrender to him. He long ago established a rule that he would not even meet with Sherlock the morning after such a night, so that his brother would have no opportunity to deduce it's existence. Fortunately, their meetings are infrequent enough that he has never been required to break this rule.

But of course, all things must be had in balance, for him especially, and thus there are other nights. Nights when he requires dominion, rather than surrender.

He is a man of control, in a world full of chaos. And he is possessed of a younger sibling who seems to delight in finding his way into the heart of chaos and magnifying it threefold. Indeed, he often thinks that, if chaos were to be personified like a deity of old, it would be Sherlock. In his more introspective moments, he suspects that Sherlock himself understands this dichotomy between them, and that this is the reason his brother refers to them as archenemies. Not for any sibling rivalry, but simply because their natures are so forcefully opposed to one another in personality, and yet so evenly matched in terms of raw assets.

It is a fact, however, that even without Sherlock, the world is a chaotic place, forever yielding to the concepts of entropy in spite of his best attempts. Even England, small as it is, is prone to outbreaks of irrationality, turmoil, trouble and scandal with almost unpredictable regularity. And all of this, given his position, is quite frustrating.

Sometimes, after a long day of bureaucratic inanities or political disasters, or after cleaning up yet another mess left in his brother's wake, he needs control.

These nights are the opposite of the nights when he surrenders. These nights, he leads with a firm step and a firmer hand. He controls everything in these nights. Every movement is made on his whim, to his exact desires. Clothing removed and folded in orderly fashion. Refreshments set just so, presented in the order he desires, at the exact correct temperature and texture.

He is never harsh, never cruel, never rough or violent. Those are not to his taste. But he is demanding, on these nights. Commanding, forceful. There is little of gentleness in these nights, nothing of softness in his manner or his movements.

These nights, he gives little of himself, and demands everything of her. These are the nights he turns the full force of his abilities to the dynamics between them.

These are the nights he could force her submission, completely bend her to his will, if he chose. That she does not fear him, even when she faces the full focus of his power, knowing it has brought others to ruin, is a measure of her trust. That he has never broken that trust, he regards as a measure of his own ability to care, and his own worthiness in finding such a partner.

These nights, he is in complete control, and he is incandescent, the force of his personality burning between them like a star. He tastes the sweetness of having power, nearly limitless power, of being akin to gods, even if it is only here in his own home, only with her.

It is rapture of a different sort than surrender, far sharper, a boost to his ego and his confidence beyond even the most intricate political puzzle. It is a reminder of all that he could do, all that he could be, if he were to use the full range of his skills.

It is also a reminder of why he does not, outside of these nights.

Such control requires a certain amount of connection to people, if it is to be maintained. And it requires a great deal of energy. The control he exerts in these nights brings him both exultation and exhaustion in equal measures, and the heights he reaches at the peaks are fully measured by the aftermath.

He knows well the price of his day-to-day control, of all that he manages and oversees within the borders of his country, and beyond. And he knows the price, and the reaction, did he attempt to achieve daily what he gains in those nights.

Better to leave those moments as they are, in rare bursts of power and wonder and sweetness, a rare treat to delight his mind and senses when he requires it. He does not want to become addicted to it, any more than he can afford to become addicted to the relief of surrender, and both are dangerous.

Such nights are rather like his favorite type of cake, a treat he indulges in perhaps once a month, sometimes less, which can only be found in one shop in all of London. Always delicious, always worth the wait and the cost. And if he indulged too frequently, there would be problems. The cake would likely give him 40 extra pounds and the final nudge into diabetes if he ate it as often as he wants to.

Still, sometimes, one must have cake.

Sometimes, he needs tenderness, surrender, or dominion. And others, he needs simple relief.

She understands all of that, and knows what he needs and when he needs it. The mark of a good secretary.

The mark of a better partner.

They never address their unconventional relationship outside of those nights when she stays with him. It would be unwise, to address such a delicate topic where other ears might hear. He knows that Sherlock suspects the truth, and some of his colleagues likely have guessed, if only through crude fantasies of what they would do were they in his place. But guesses and suspicions mean nothing, and he is unconcerned. Only Sherlock might give him pause, and there is no question that his brother does his absolute best to avoid thinking about or retaining anything regarding his private life, as a matter of his own mental health. He knows this, because he does much the same, when he can, regarding Sherlock. There are some things siblings are not meant to be overly aware of in regards to each other.

He's always told his brother that caring is not an advantage. As far as he knows, that is true. Certainly, his care for his brother is no advantage to him or his career. In fact, Sherlock is often a source of strife, trouble, and high blood pressure, to say nothing of the high blood sugar that sometimes occurs when he succumbs to his bad habits and winds up eating cake and sweets for four meals in a row, with sweet tea and cream as well.

Caring for Sherlock is bad for his health, and his diet, and his peace of mind. And the fact that Sherlock comes to care for Dr. Watson is equally bad. In some ways, Dr. Watson is invaluable, keeping Sherlock in a sort of stable condition, making sure he eats semi-regularly, avoids drugs, and doesn't get arrested more often than he gets called in for cases. In other ways, he is a headache, since Sherlock will do the most ridiculous things to keep him safe. Face off against madmen with bombs, go chasing after assassins, stand in front of snipers, even lie to the police and pretend to be in shock, which is utterly absurd, as anyone who knows Sherlock could attest. Really, he still marvels that the inspectors of Scotland Yard accepted that, even with their relative idiocy.

No, his relationship with Sherlock is proof that caring is not an advantage.

Still, high-functioning sociopaths they both may be, but there are rare individuals who can connect with them. And in the privacy of his own home, he can admit that his secretary has become his Watson, and much more.

Or perhaps not more, given that Sherlock would both die and kill to keep Dr. Watson safe, to say nothing of lie. But it a different sort of partnership. A different dynamic.

But of course, that is not surprising, given how he and Sherlock are different people. Sherlock needs someone who can walk the battlefield of law and order with him. He requires someone who understands the delicate subtleties of politics and the background shivers of power. Sherlock requires an anchor, something to keep him stable. He requires an outlet, something to relieve the pressure.

Still there is no denying what his lady, his secretary, is to him.

Caring is not an advantage, and he is not a man of emotion, in general. And yet…

Were he any other than what he is, he concedes that he might call it love.

 _ **Author's Note:** Was re-watching Sherlock, and this just...well, Mycroft made me. Wouldn't leave me alone._


End file.
